Fourteen Days
by Rach3
Summary: Sydney, mind games and the desert.
1. Fourteen Days: Part One

Title: Fourteen Days  
Author: Rach  
E-mail: aliasrlm@yahoo.com  
Website: http://aliasrlm.diary-x.com  
Feedback: Mais oui...yes, yes, yes.  
Distribution: CD, of course...all others please ask.  
Dislcaimer: Alias is owned by ABC, Touchtone, is the creation of   
JJ Abrams and Bad Robot Productions  
Summary: Sydney, mind games and the desert.  
Classification: Drama, UST, Action

AN: Thanks to Kat, who has held my hand through this first part. Also, thanks to Jenai, who lets me bounce ideas off of her and reads all the crap I send her. And, finally, Diana, (my newest beta), thanks for picking up so many of those small errors...I really appreciate it! All of you have helped so much!

****

_Carnival, the wheels fly and the colors spin   
through alcohol.   
Red wine that punctures the skin.   
Face to face in a dry and waterless place.   
Walk on by, Walk on through   
So sad to besiege your love so,   
Head on, stay this time.   
Stay tonight, in a lie.   
I'm only asking but I think that you know.  
--The Unforgettable Fire, U2_

****

  
They told her it would be wise if she took a break.

They told her to make herself invisible, to hide away somewhere she couldn't be easily found.

They told her to take enough clothing and supplies to last for fourteen days. They didn't say two weeks -- no, they said fourteen days.

They told her she had no reason to worry, but they reminded her to pack a gun.

They told her the desert was always a good place to visit.

And then they gave her a map and a shiny silver key.

****

Vaughn had protested, but they, like many times before, ignored him. It was easier, now that he was holed up in a guarded hospital room, all scratched, scarred and bruised, being fed shitty, mushy food and quiet lies.

She hadn't seen him since those last desperate moments in a gleaming white corridor - when she thought he was dead and felt hard hands dig into her arms and shoulders. Her father reassured her hastily after her rushed extraction from Taipei that all three of them - Will, Vaughn, Jack - would be fine.

She knows her father is a practiced, well-trained liar, but she likes to believe he was honest with her. She likes to believe him as she's curled up inside this remote one-bedroom residence (she doesn't think of it as a cabin, though - cabins are for rugged mountaintops and ski resorts, not for the parched, cracked desert landscape). She likes to think that perhaps Will developed amnesia and has forgotten the past few tumultuous weeks and that when she returns, he'll be waiting with wide smiling eyes and a reinstated air of innocence. She likes to think that she will be able to return without the heart-piercing fear of losing yet another person in her life. She likes to think all these things while gulping glass after glass of cold water that eventually stings and numbs her teeth.

It feels like it's a silent act of defiance, the excessive water drinking. Hydrating her body while looking out at bristly cacti, tumbleweed and miles after miles of sand and brush is like thumbing her nose at the elements, the world outside. She wants to place her hands on the splintered wood of the window frame and scream, "Take that, you bastards!" although she doesn't know to whom she's referring - the CIA, SD-6, her mother's goons or to the harsh water-starved land on the other side of the cracked windowpane. Instead, she fills another cup at the shallow kitchen sink and forces her longing gaze from the paved two-lane road in the distance.

It's only been four days (of the fourteen, not two weeks) and she's going stir-crazy. She's paced tirelessly, counting the number of worn beige linoleum squares in the kitchen (24), the strips of pale wood flooring in rest of the tiny building (86) (she can't call it a home, and even though transients have used this place, she knows no one has ever stayed long enough to call it home). She's counted the number of cars that have passed by since 9 a.m. (37) and noted that rusty pick-up trucks seem to be the vehicle of choice in the nearby dust blown towns. And she's realized there's something almost majestically beautiful about seeing a rusty Ford tear down the road, illuminated in the red-orange haze of a Nevada sunset.

But more and more she thinks about leaving this place, getting into her stolen brown Toyota Camry and driving toward Vegas. She fantasizes about strolling down Fremont Street, her head tilted back and eyes on the thousands of lights flashing in tempo with Motown music. Not looking over her shoulder, not prepared to break into an all-out run, not thinking of anything except the garish décor and carnival-like atmosphere of downtown Las Vegas. She pictures the dim lighting inside Binion's Horseshoe - the scurry of bespeckled white-haired ladies clutching plastic cups of quarters and bottomless white plastic handbags. She imagines being anonymous, playing nickel slots and swimming through clouds of heavy cigarette smoke. She thinks of winning a shiny yellow Mustang and leaving behind the Toyota and the guilt of having stolen it. She daydreams until she feels tears sting her eyes and her fingernails pierce the flesh of her palms.

And she focuses on the couch, which has also doubled as her bed the past few nights. The nubby fabric is a wide plaid of brown and tan and orange - it's surprisingly soft and comfortable, although it reeks of a dozen exhausted bodies and pungent desperation. Thank God she had the common sense to bring her own pillow, a fresh, flower-scented oasis of escape she clutches in the dreary pitch black of desert night.

Her eyes dart to her gun (CIA issue) and to the green glow of her cell phone, both placed at right angles on the chipped, scratched coffee table, which is quite heavy, being made of dense particleboard. She tried moving it on Day Two, when she was toying with the idea of ditching the spy life to become an interior design guru like that flamboyant goateed guy on HGTV that Francie adores. She managed to drag it halfway across the claustrophobic room before quitting, her hands on her hips and a pent-up sob caught in the back of her lungs. It seemed that nothing, even moving a decade-old piece of shit coffee table, would ever go her way.

And she sat there, arms crossed at her chest at an attempt of holding it all in, just staring at her Nokia, willing for it to ring, for its glowing window to flash with an incoming call. She wanted to talk to her father, to Will, to Francie, to Weissto Vaughn. She longed for some kind of contact with another person hell, she'd even talk to Sloane. She'd chum it up with fake laughter and small talk and pretend she didn't hate him so vehemently. She squeezed her eyes shut and admonished herself for being so desperate -- and that was only on Day Two.

Day Three was no better. She was stupid enough to attempt dialing Vaughn's cell, which resulted in nothing but a voice mail shrouded in static. She found herself smiling, though, upon hearing his recorded voice - it was tired and rushed, but it was still him. Still Vaughn.and he was alive. One thing for which to be thankful.

Oh, that and the electric fan she was lucky enough to locate in the building's only closet, a dingy little nook covered in green indoor/outdoor carpet. The fan was the only thing in the stale-smelling closet, save a few feet of knotted twine and a pair of green-handled hedge clippers, which served absolutely no purpose in the desert. The fan had been her saving grace during the past few days -- the one thing keeping her sane through the blistering hot days.

She untied all the knots in the twine while humming 80s pop songs. After that, she started talking into the fan, feeling foolish at first, but eventually enjoying the sound of her voice made choppy by metal blades. She spent most of Day Three with her bare feet dangling off the end of the couch, elbows of the coffee table, chin resting on hands -- mere inches from the whirring fan. What came from her mouth was, for the most part, complete gibberish, from nursery rhymes to reciting foreign phrases and alphabets. Toward the end of the day, as the sun was relenting behind the far-off hills, she said all the things she wished she would've said to her mother in the few minutes before her father rescued her.

Started with an angry, powerful, "You selfish, selfish bitch!"

Ended with a quiet, emotional, "I loved you so much it hurt, so much I thought my love could bring you backbut I never once thought it would be like this"

But no matter which words escaped her mouth, the main one circling in her mind was a mere "why?" It hovered and buzzed and descended so often that she finally turned off the fan, moved to the kitchen window and glared at her stolen Toyota with glassy eyes.

And now Day Four is slowly edging into Night Four. She nibbles mindlessly on a granola bar and finishes another glass of cold water as the sun disappears completely from the sky. The sweat coating the back of her neck is sticky, but growing cooler by the minute. She sighs, rising to fill her glass.

A gasp catches in the back of her dry throat. Without taking her eyes off the shadowy figure she sees through the window, she gingerly places her glass in the sink, careful to not make a sound.

****

There's movement in the driveway. What catches her eye initially is a flash of light reflected off a wristwatch - an arm swinging in tempo with brisk steps. She quickly recognizes the form of a man, relatively tall (she thinks around 6'0"), slim - who obviously has one major set of balls to be approaching a dilapidated one-room shack in the middle of the Nevada desert.

She moves quick, ducking low, snatching her gun off the coffee table and sliding out the back window. Having spent the past days relatively unstimulated, her mind is now extraordinarily focused, her sight as sharp as a Ginsu knife. She presses her body against the buckled siding of the house, easing around the corner, her gun grasped tight in her right hand. Adrenaline shoots through her limbs - every inch of her body is painfully alive and aware. In a matter of seconds, she focuses in on her prey, who's nearing the door. She takes a deep breath and starts running full speed, her bare feet barely making a sound on the packed sand. Wind rushes through her hair, into her ears, through the splayed fingers of her left hand. Her heart is pumping and the pain of a cactus needle lodged in her heel barely registers - all she can see is the outline of a body.

Closer and closerandcloserandcloser -

Until she throws herself at him, on him, over him, connecting solidly with this shadow of substance. Her left hand tugs and hits and smacks. Words fly out of her mouth, but she's not aware of a single syllable. He fights back, but her adrenaline and strength are a combination he can't weaken.

Warm metal is against his temple and she's breathing heavily, straddling him, her stomach pressed against his. Her dark eyes move wildly and she sees everything -- darkened desert sky, white-hot stars, crooked front door, black leather belt, gleaming Rolex -- but his face.

Her thighs gripping the sides of his taut abdomen, she closes the gap between their bodies until she can hear the thump of his heart. It's a fast rhythm she's more than familiar with.

"You _should_ be scared." The words stick to the roof of her dry mouth.

Silence. Their labored breathing is all that fills the air. His breath smells like coffee.

His head moves slightly, and in the moonlight she sees his piercing blue eyes, crooked bottom lip, and short blond hair. 

"Sark," she breathes, trying to hide her surprise. His white oxford is now balled in her angry fist and she straightens herself, pulling him closer. His nostrils flare. "How the hell did you find me?" she growls through clenched teeth.

No answer. His eyes manage to burrow into her, but see right through her at the same time. She shoves him to the ground harshly, satisfied when he lets out a grunt of discomfort. She brings one knee to rest on his stomach and starts pressing.

"Grmmmphh," is all he says. She suddenly realizes that grunting and moaning sounds the same in any language, the sounds defying any accent. It's all the same; we're all the same, she thinks. We all express the most basic emotions the same way, whether we're American or English, Czech or Chinese, killer or defender.

She presses harder, his muscles tense beneath her. "Tell me," she repeats, twisting her knee. The action solicits another grunt from Sark, who has all but gone still.

"I have my methods," he whispers calmly, his breathing regulated. "The CIA isn't impenetrable."

"Fuck," she mutters under her breath. She sits still for a few seconds, cursing all those stupid fucks in suits that assured her she'd be safe in this shithole. She slowly moves her right hand, pointing the gun at his chest. She can't think straight, so she does the only thing that makes sense - she runs her free hand over his pant leg, the right one first, starting at the ankles and reaching around. Bony ankles. Her hand fits the curve of his leg as it slides upward. Muscular thighs. She reaches for Sark's belt, her fingers sweeping against the soft leather around his waist until they hit what she expected.

A belt holster - the material just as supple as his belt. She can't see it, but imagines it's also black. From what she's gathered, he's not the type of man who would mismatch. And yes, there's a gun. She sighs and continues her pat-down - her hands making their way across his chest, down his arms. He may be slim, but he's got muscles - her fingers greedily discover. His breathing is no longer regulated. Neither is hers. 

And then she realizes she hasn't been this physically close to a man in months. _Since Noah._

She bites her lip, forcing the memories aside, and moves back to his belt, where she works the holster until the gun is free and clutched in her left hand. 

"Are you alone?" Her voice shocks her - it sounds so weary, completely out of place with the determined woman who just felt up a complete stranger.

"Yes." He's looking at her in an odd way - his unfaltering gaze understanding but defiant.

She straightens both arms, digging both gun barrels into his chest. "Are you sure?"

He shifts uncomfortably and grimaces. "Yes."

Out of the corner of her eye, something moves. Her back muscles contract and she spins at the waist, pulling both triggers. Dust flies, clouding her vision. Her eyes scan the area, seeing only sand. The sound of gunshots is still pounding in her ears, echoing off the distant hills. 

Sark is coughingand making some other noise. He's laughing - a grainy laugh. "You," he laughs, "just shot a snake."

She knows she shouldn't laugh, shouldn't chuckle, shouldn't even break a tiny smile. But she can't help it. The corners of her mouth twitch upward involuntarily and she sees he's doing the same.

"Oh Christ," she says through a sigh. She slides off his chest, guns still pointed at him. "Get up."

He gracefully rises, dusting himself off with broad, stiff brushes of his hands. Even though she's afraid he'll run, she knows he won't. He's not a fool - he doesn't want to die in this remote part of the desert any more than she does.

"Inside," she motions with the guns to the door.

He doesn't even glance at her as he moves to the cracked wood door. He tries the handle. "It's locked."

"Yeah, I know that," she mutters. "You think I would just leave it wide open?"

She's next to him and the wind picks up, almost if on cue. Her hair whips against her face and she tucks a gun in the waistband of her black yoga pants. "Move," she demands and her hair is blown into her mouth. "Plechh." Her tongue pushes the hair out, tasting the strawberry fragrance of her shampoo.

His eyebrow rises and she can tell he wants to smile. He's not taking her seriously, she realizes. He knows she won't kill him.

"Are you going to move or not?" she snaps, surprised again at her voice. It's sharp, upset, frustrated.

He obliges quietly, stepping back a few feet.

She pictures her mother's twisted, condescending smirk as she kicks the door open with a grunt.

"And in bare feet no less," Sark comments with an appreciative tilt of the head. "Impressive."

"The lock is a piece of shit." She's still irritated. "Get inside."

He saunters past her and into the building. His eyebrows rise yet again and he turns to her, his black suit jacket flapping. "The CIA certainly knows how to furnish luxurious accommodations for its employees."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly their most satisfied employee at the moment," she comments wryly. A thousand curse words jam her thoughts. She adjusts the gun in her waistband and walks determinedly to the coffee table. "Sit."

She reaches for the twine and his eyes follow. "You cannot be seriously contemplating using _that_ on _me_," he snarls. 

"Sit," she repeats sternly. She senses his hesitation and waves her gun at him. "Now!"

He lowers his body onto the plaid sofa, which lets out a squeak of resistance.

He bites his bottom lip as she starts to wrap the twine around his wrists. "Honestly, Ms. Bristow, I don't know what exactly you are planning, but - " 

"But what? You want to give me pointers on how to treat a hostage?" She continues to wrap the twine, pulling it until his light skin reddens. "I guess it's unfortunate I forgot my dental equipment at home." 

Giving the twine a final tug, she secures it with a few military knots.

She pauses and bends until she is looking directly into his fiery eyes. "We could've had some real fun then, don't you think?"

He remains silent, eyes narrowed and lips pursed, continuing to stare into her.

It makes her feel uneasy and self-conscious and all too aware that she's make-up free and glazed with a thin layer of sticky sweat.

She hurriedly turns her back to him and switches on the fan with a muted sigh.

Minutes pass in a heavy silence only broken by the mechanical whirring of the fan's old, overworked motor.

* * * *  
With the tense, hostile atmosphere heightening her senses and providing a slight tingle in her fingertips, Sydney enters Day Five in a different atmosphere than she had imagined just a few hours earlier.

She tucks her hair behind her ears and stands up, surveying the room. It's odd, but she never once considered looking out of place in this rustic desert environment - but Sark sure as hell does with his starched white shirt, expensive suit and shiny Rolex.

She feels his glare scorching her skin, but she keeps her gaze on the window, in which she can watch him without having to look directly at him.

"So, I'm assuming they know you're here?" 

He nods. "Of course."

"And I'm also assuming that they'll be coming for you if don't return by a set time?"

"Also correct." His voice is as frigid as Siberia.

She has no reason to doubt him, but she does. She would bet money (Vegas, Vegas, blue-haired women and smoke clouds) that he's bluffing. He has a tell - a twitch in his left cheek - that hasn't gone unnoticed.

"So," she ventures again, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her knees deliberately brushing against his. The eye contact, so intense, almost makes her shiver. "We can have a little talk before your friends show up."

His cheek spasms and she hides a smile. He's lying. They have no idea where he isand he thinks she believes him. Oh, the fun she could have.

But, first, a pressing question: "Why did you come here?"

"What do you plan on doing with me?" he counters.

"Don't avoid my question," she snaps. "I'd appreciate an answer."

"And, I, Ms. Bristow," he leans forward, motioning with his bound hands, "would appreciate these restraints removed."

She reaches out, her fingers running along the rough twine, trailing along his surprisingly soft skin. "Answer my question."

He sighs, but not before quickly glancing at her mobile hands. "I had orders from my employer."

"You mean my mother?" she slips her index finger under the taut twine, causing it to pull tighter on his wrists. 

"No, Khasinau." He's expressionless, having been trained well. Too bad he can't control that twitch in his cheek.

She's surprised, but continues, "Why did he send you here?"

Yet another sigh escapes Sark's mouth. "I told you-"

"No, you didn't." She pulls away from the twine, but not before twisting it around her finger, causing a quick grimace to appear on Sark's face. Her frustration is escalating and she can feel her eyebrows furrowing. "Tell. Me. Why."

"I don't know why," he replies icily. 

"Yes you do."

"I refuse to argue with you -"

"Could've fooled me."

She rests her elbows on her knees and waits.

"I've got all the time in the world, Mr. Sarkor at least until your coworkers track us down." She places her chin on top of her entwined, steepled fingers, her eyes not straying from his. She can't help but study his eyes - the way the brilliant sapphire claims the outside edges of his irises and gradually morphs into a grayish-blue near the pupil. "I haven't done anything in daysand I still have nine more left. I really would have no problem sitting here, like this, all night."

"How very exciting," Sark mumbles sarcastically, looking away. 

"Yeah, well, this is the most excitement I've had in five days," she says, her knuckles digging into the soft skin under her chin. 

"I'm glad to be of service, then, Ms. Bristow-"

"Sydney," she lurches forward, grabbing the fine material of his trousers at his knee. A fake smile is plastered on her faces as she continues, "You know my name -- why even attempt a forced formality when we both know that you're not as civil and refined as you'd like people to believe."

His eyes snap back to hers. They're not hostile like she expected, but rather amused and glinting. "Civility is a relative term, Sydney," is all he says, a smirk claiming his lips.

She releases the material and shoves his leg with a force that startles her. He, on the other hand, shows no sign of surprise. He just attempts to adjust his disheveled pant leg.

And with that, he falls back into silence.

She moves to the window, gun in hand, and sees nothing but the dark of night and faint stripes of moonlight that disappear just below the clouds.

* * *

She's antsy, sitting on the edge of the coffee table, her bare feet tapping on the dingy rust-colored carpet. She's bored still, yes, but the boredom has been pushed aside by the slippery desire for revenge. Which each glance at Sark, the fantasies intensify and the ideas marinate in her mind. She thinks of pummeling his smug face with tight fists and callused bare feet. She thinks of pulling that twine so tight that blood seeps onto his pristine white shirt. She thinks of the bullets in her gun and how easily they could blow out his kneecaps. She wants revenge - so much she can taste a hint of sweetness on the back of her tongue.

She stretches her fingers and clears her throat, hoping both actions will erase the wicked scenarios from her mind.

"You still haven't told me why Khasinau sent you here." 

Her voice is rough with aggression.

He matches her tone, saying, "No, I haven't. But then you haven't removed these restraints." 

"And that's because I don't trust you."

He lets out a stiff chuckle. "I don't blame you." 

He licks his lips. "But I need not remind you that you're armed - I'm not."

Her fingers slide slowly along the metal of her gun. It's a powerful feeling, holding a gun - holding a man hostage. She hates firing guns, though - the smell and sound and thoughts of death. She shudders and becomes increasingly pissed when he tilts his head, having noticed her involuntarily movement. It's almost as if his silent acknowledgement over her lack of control has threatened to weaken her. And she doesn't like that.

She feels this electricity pulsing through her veins and doesn't know what to do with it. She just knows her limbs feel edgy from lack of movement.

Feeling an immediate need to put some distance (however small) between her and Sark, she stands. 

A sharp pain in her heel causes her to gasp and lift her foot. "Goddamn," she mutters, arching her back to turn her head and view the damage.

Sark angles his head to observe her reddened heel. "Ah, cactus needle," he comments. 

She shoots him a narrowed eyed glare and resumes her seated position on the edge of the coffee table. Upon closer inspection, she realizes the cactus needle is fully embedded in her flesh, which is now tender to the touch.

"Have you ever noticed that some injuries are relatively painless until you actually inspect the damage?" Sark ventures, the tiniest note of empathy in his voice. 

"Or how a man can appear harmless," she starts through clenched teeth, closely examining the inflamed area of her foot, "until you watch him commit a savage murder?"

"There's no such thing as a harmless man, Sydney," he retorts. "Given the proper motivation - and perhaps desperation - any man can become a threat."

She remembers the past few days in a quick orange blur -- the fan and the sunsets and the car counting and water guzzling. With her head still bent over her foot, she raises her eyes until her gaze, powerful and electric, meets his.

"So can any woman."

* * *

She carefully prods the area round the cactus needle, wincing as a sharp pain shoots through her foot. 

"My mother always used a honey salve to remove them," Sark offers quietly, his eyes strangely distant.

"You got cactus needles stuck in your feet quite often?" she blurts out incredulously, finding it hard to picture a younger version of Sark, let alone him with actual parentsand in the desert.

"Actually, yes," he answers. His brows are knitted together as he continues to focus intently on the far end of the kitchen counter. "She became quite an expert at removing them after the first few times." He pauses, adjusting his bound hands. "I was a very rambunctious child and had a tendency to get into some rather interesting predicaments."

"You lived in the _desert_?" she finds herself leaning forward, intrigued, her foot temporarily forgotten.

"Yes." It looks like he wants to say more, but knows it's best not to reveal too much personal information. 

Rubbing his thumb against his index finger, he adds, "I lived in many different locales as a child." 

His eyes slowly move from the scratched kitchen counter to meet hers. Although they still hold a faraway glaze, she sees a glint of something familiar - a look that she's caught in the mirror more than a few times this past year. Profound sadnessa wise beyond the years exhaustion that usually can only be found in those thirty years older. A look that has found a permanent home in her father's eyes.

"Where else did you live?" she finds herself asking out of pure curiosity.

Surprised at her interest, he hesitates. She tucks her hair behind her ear as she waits, quickly eyeing the twine on his wrists.

"Cities." She pictures gray London streets and the colorful silk patterns of Bombay. 

"Quaint villages." Visions of tiny towns nestled on curved, quiet roads in Provence and Tuscany.

"Rural areas." Sheep grazing on green Irish hills - chickens and cows dotting a flat-land farm in eastern Kansas. 

"And yes, even the desert." She pictures a tow-headed boy running at full speed past cacti, crunchy tumbleweed and stolen brown Toyotas. 

"Hmm," she murmured, wondering what it would've been like to have traveled the world at such a young age - not on missions, but attending grade school in foreign countries. "Did you like it? The traveling?"

His head tilts and again, she surmises he's debating whether to answer the invasive question.

"I wouldn't call it traveling," he comments, biting his lower lip. "It wasn't something I chose to do - it was forced upon me." He sighs and she thinks never has a face so physically young seemed so aged. "But I would assume my rather nomadic childhood contributed greatly to my current lifestyle."

"Which is?" she prompts. As soon as the words leave her mouth, she feels a shift in his mood. She's pushed too far - his guard is back up.

"One not terribly unlike yours, Sydney," he says quietly, his voice sliding smoothly over the syllables. 

She immediately thinks: _Except I don't kill. Except I don't torture innocent people. Except I'm trying to do good. Except I'm risking my life on a daily basis for my country, not for the almighty dollar._

But she says, her thumbnail lodged between her teeth, "Perhaps."

"Sydney," he breathes, scooting away from the back of the couch until he's sitting on the edge. "You cannot truly believe that we are really that different."

She sighs and absentmindedly runs a hand through her hair. "Y'know what? Maybe we're not." She watches the corners of his mouth perk up. "But I like to think, when it comes to the very basic issues of morality - the right and wrong - that I am absolutely _nothing_ like you."

"I see," the words barely escape through his teeth. "It's your right to have an opinion. However, I think if you had to choose between an arduously slow death and surrendering your so-called morality, your opinion might change."

"I'd like to think it wouldn't," she counters, her fingers gripping her thighs. She feels that itchy, electric jumpiness return to her already tense muscles.

A few moments of complete silence pass during which she's practically convinced he's holding his breath. Her suspicions are confirmed when he exhales loudly, dipping his head. Seeing where his light hair meets the smooth nape of his neck, she has the urge to touch him - wishing she could heal him and make him good with the slightest brush of the hand. Hell, she wishes she could heal herself too. 

Images of Vegas flash through her head once again. Escape to rainbow-spurting fountains, marble-tiled lobbies, valets with burgundy suits and black, official-looking hats. Escape to civilization, where it wouldn't feel so damn normal to clutch a gun and tie up men with rough twine. Just fucking escape to a place where she can blend in and slowly slide red plastic chips over soft green felt.

Her heel is throbbing with a pressurized pain. She can feel her blood pumping to and from the swollen area in a quick rhythm. She can hear him breathing, see the gradual rise and fall of his chest, observe his pupils slowly dilating. She can see his fingers twitch and his shoulders relax slightly. She sees him - and knows he's observing her too.

And sighing, she wonders what he sees when he looks at her.

* * *

"You came here to kill me," she states an hour later, still seated on the coffee table. 

"No." It's an instant, almost too-quick response that jars her with its soft denial.

"Then _what_?" Weary, that's what she is. She's purely exhausted from hours spent with this man who can enrage and placate her in the same breath. She can't figure him out - and it's frustrating the hell out of her.

"You're quite good at _pretending _you want to know," he whispers. "But you don't really want to know, do you?"

She feels like she's been bitch smacked, a strong backhand whipping her head to the side from the force. Her mouth ajar, she clambers for the right words. Deny, deny, deny, she thinks. But it's true, oh God it's so true. Electric, again - she's angered at how close he's come to the truth. Electric and tingly and enraged, she is.

"I-I think you're crazy," is all she can manage, and poorly.

"And I think you don't want to know the truth."

"Then why would I keep asking?" 

"You're asking, yes," he allows with a shrug. "But you're not demanding, you're not forcing me to answer, you're not putting a gun to my head and -"

One snap movement and she's straddling him, her muscular thighs squeezing his legs and her slick black gun pressed against his temple.

"Like this?" She presses harder, metal against flesh, until she can feel him squirm. "Is this what you want? Strong-armed tactics?" 

[end part one]  


  



	2. Fourteen Days: Part Two

Fourteen Days   
(Part 2/2) 

By Rach

Feedback: Yes, please. aliasrlm@yahoo.com

Archive: CM, Sarkney Haven, all others please contact me.

Rating: a solid R

AN: This takes place immediately following "Almost Thirty Years". I would advise that you read 'Technicolor Splendor' – the FD prequel – and the first part of 'Fourteen Days' before reading this (you can find them at Cover Me, ff.net or ). Things will be make much more sense if you do so. I know this has been a long time in coming and I hope the conclusion makes up for the year-long wait. Thanks to the endless amount of encouragement from all of you – I know I've been a slacker in getting this finished. Rhien, Pooh, Rez, Amy, Auburn, Diana, Kat – a big fat thank you. I couldn't have done it without you.

----

"All I've known, all I've done, all I've felt was leading to this." Gorecki, Lamb 

----

Save for the cool metal pressing into his temple, he wouldn't change this moment for the world.

Her breathing is not steady, nor his. Her cheeks are flushed, taffy pink, no longer cast with the pale tint of boredom. Her eyes are not straying from his. The atmosphere is undoubtedly charged, his hands – still bound with rough twine – are itching to be active. What movement he would make, though, he does not know. 

A million scenarios flash through his consciousness in a series of sharp seconds. He would reach for her arms, knock the gun free, pin her to the ground. He would push a strand of hair from her sticky cheek. His fist would connect to her jaw in a solid blow, send her reeling, crashing to the dingy floor. He would pull her to him, his hands twisting into her ponytail with a raw, relentless need. He would rip the gun out of her grip – shoot her dead at point-blank range. He would see her eyes – irises rimmed in warm mocha – narrow as her finger twitches and she finally pulls the trigger.

He will, as it turns out, do none of these things.

And yet, in the following days, they will be the visions that haunt him. They will wake him in the dead of night, gasping for a breath, for an answer, for…a cure. They are the what ifs, the hazy, slow-motion fantasies, the crystal-clear nightmares. They are relentless and pressing – the choices he might've made if he were weaker, stronger, colder, more human. 

He is none of these.

The gun is still there. Sydney is still facing him, thighs gripping his like a vice. Her breath – its coolness betraying their arid, hot location --  is still mingling with his. This moment, he thinks, is perhaps more intimate than any he's ever experienced with far less clothing, with far more agreeable women.

And he is still silent.

Reflective, almost. Although his pulse is quickening, it is merely a result of adrenaline. Or, if he cares to stretch the boundaries of common sense, because she is so damn close. But not because he is afraid of dying. No, if he's fearful of anything, it's of the way she unnerves him, gets under his thickened skin – causes him to catch his breath when she turns at a certain angle or slowly bites her lip when she's thinking.

He knows she will not pull the trigger for a number of reasons. The most prominent in his mind, of course, is that she is good. She is a crusader for peace, for fairness, for morality. She is not her mother. 

"Sydney," he finally says, moistening his lips with the tip of his tongue. The desert, he's certain, is causing his dry mouth, his difficulty in speaking properly.

Her head tilts slightly, as if hearing her name fall from his lips is the one thing that could soften her position, but yet also the only thing that could cement it. It is apparent as she fights against the former, eyebrows furrowing, the tip of the gun, now held with a white-knuckled grip of increased pressure, causing him to wince.

"Sydney," he repeats hoarsely, his gaze intent and relentless. "Put down. The gun."

Her lips part as if to retort, but he has one word left for her. "Please."

His tone doesn't waver or scratch; it's solid and falls just short of demanding.

"Why should I?" she responds evenly after a brief moment of contemplation. "Give me just one good reason."

"I can give you more than that," he says slowly, quietly, feeling the double entendre slice through his stomach like a scorching shot of whiskey. His focus is on her solely, not on the wind whipping at the cracked windows, the split siding smacking against the rotten walls – these sounds, while annoying, serve merely as background noise, a rustic ambience.

"Oh yeah?" she breathes, eyebrow arching as she leans closer, her cheeks now fully flushed. If he could move freely, he knows he'd be tempted to gently sweep the back of his hand across the smooth curve of her cheek. His restraints, however cumbersome, he decides quickly, have their advantages. "Go ahead, Sark. Give me one reason not to pull the trigger."

He nods curtly, out of necessity – concerned that any other response, such as a prolonged silence or lengthy pause, might cause Sydney to tense. And he, of all things, did not want that.

"I suggest, Sydney," -- he relishes the feeling of her name on his tongue, however dry it may be -- "that we come to an agreement."

Careful to hold her gaze, to pull her attention away from the gun still digging into his temple, he continues, "There is nothing to be gained from my death." Tilting his head ever so slightly, he adds, "Nor yours."

She doesn't reply. He takes this as a sign to press onward.

"You cut my restraints and I'll tell you what you want to know…within reason. I'm sure you understand that I cannot divulge everything, nor can I promise answers to your most pressing questions, as I am not privy to everything my employer is…" His mouth becomes as parched as the cracked earth outside as he watches her lips part slightly, just enough to expose a gleam of white, a glimpse of velvety pink. "You have the advantage; I am not fool enough to argue with that fact. That said, I am at your disposal."

Of course, as with all things he says, he means only half of this. But what she doesn't know…well, he can't be held responsible for that.

A chuckle catches on her tongue, causing her lips to curve halfheartedly before she says, "And why should I believe anything you say?"

"Because I have no reason to lie." The words flow like water, soothing his thirst; even he's impressed with the ease with which they pour from his mouth, as if he's a player on stage, reading a well-practiced script. He pauses, sees her expectant expression, the way she's holding her breath, although she's probably unaware she's doing so. Yes, it is the right time to play his cards. He purposely lowers his voice when he adds, edging toward her until they are mere centimeters apart, "Because, Sydney, no one knows I'm here."

She breathes then, a giant gulp of air that whistles through her teeth, reminding Sark of metal wind chimes that dangled from the porch of a lakeside childhood home, how he used to think they cut through rain-soaked gusts like curving samurai swords.

"That makes no sense," she whispers, her voice teetering on the brink of frustration. "Why would you put yourself at risk…coming out here…without telling my moth—your employers—"

"There isn't an explanation I can offer," he starts, feeling his breath ricochet off her skin – a coolness he doesn't expect – before adding, "a satisfactory one…one that you wouldn't question."

"You just said, not even two minutes ago, that you would answer my questions…" She cocks her head to the side, releasing a small amount of pressure from the gun, her lips almost brushing his. "You've already failed to live up to your end of the agreement, haven't you?"

It is difficult for Sark to swallow, to move his lips, although it seems as if all the blood in his body is suddenly rushing to his mouth, rendering it ultra-sensitive and painfully alive. "On the contrary," he says, his voice -- so damned hoarse -- tickling the back of his throat. "You have yet to remove these restraints."

His bound hands move as one appendage, barely brushing over the curve of her waist. It takes all of his strength to keep his fingers deathly still against her flesh; they ache to slide over her skin, trace every curve of her body. His movement just seconds earlier was calculated, meant only as a reminder, but now he's regretting it. His teeth grating over his bottom lip, he tries to avert his gaze, to move back. It rattles him to realize that yes, he's attracted to this woman – a muscled, sinewy woman -- who is still calmly holding a gun to his head. It's wrong, so inherently wrong….but there's this electricity surrounding her, pulling him in….

Mercifully, she exhales softly, her eyes widening just enough for relief to flood Sark's body. The gun, still in her hand, slowly falls away.

And it's his turn to release a pent-up breath, which catches on the wavy strands of hair that have somehow escaped Sydney's ponytail, making them twirl and dance for a split-second in that brief breath of life before falling victim, again, to the dense heat of the desert.

Like so much else this night.

Everything, of course, except the undeniable spark between he and Sydney. The charge that tears at his mind like a pack of malnourished dogs. He tries to fight it, to deny the tingle at the base of his spine.

He fails.

"Thank you," he says, finally, succumbing to the need to say something, no matter how trivial, to fill the electric silence. 

He lets the words sink in, his hands motionless, still bound, at her side. The fleshy, sensitive backs of his fingers rest against her sticky skin. It feels comfortable, like a well-worn childhood blanket or the cool sands of the beach at twilight. 

She doesn't reply, but her eyes – still intensely burning into his – say it all. She doesn't believe him. And he doesn't care.

"Now," she moves even closer, her stomach flush against his, muscle to muscle, and the curve of her bottom lip brushes against his, "about those restraints…."

He barely manages to catch a moan in the back of his throat before it can betray him. His lips are on fire, engulfed with the need to feel her more completely. But he does nothing but return her stare – and wait in breathless silence for her next move.

The silky tip of her tongue flicks across his bottom lip in an unspoken question. _Yes?_

Fighting intense desire with every molecule of his being, he takes his time in responding. A slight dip of the head is his first indication of agreement. Then his fingers press ever so softly into her side, lazily brushing the taut curve of her waist.

She visibly shudders, eyelids fluttering closed for a brief second before locking onto his yet again. But what he now sees there – it's more than desire. It's the hell-bent, determined gaze he immediately recognizes from a number of encounters in the field. It's as if _he'_s the mission; _he'_s the prize; _he's_ the only thing she wants.

In the back of his mind, he knows none of those assumptions are true. But he'll be damned if he lets that stop him now. 

Her hands purposely graze the sides of his face as she reaches for him. Leaning into her touch, the moan he'd been holding back finally slips out, rough and saturated with wanting.

"Damn you," she admonishes in a hoarse whisper, fingers tangling in the curls at the nape of his neck.

Then she pulls him to her, crushing his mouth with days of pent-up emotion and need. 

Patience, he decides in the haze of a passionate, openmouthed kiss, has its rewards.

* * *

Later, he will not remember how it all happened. What he will remember with crystal clarity, however, is the way she gently licks at the hollow of his throat…like a kitten at a bowl of cool milk. He'll remember how the rough twine prevents him from touching her – pleasing her – properly. But most of all, he'll remember the way her long hair clings to her perspiration-drenched cheeks, how she smirks practically the entire time she rips the clothes from his frame, the entire time her naked body rides his.

He'll remember the cool abrasiveness in her voice as she comes -- gritting her teeth and cursing as she shudders, his face gripped between her shaky hands.

* * *

The restraints, though, do come off eventually. A dull butter knife is used to slice away at the twine – it takes a solid five minutes until they unravel and fall to the soiled couch.

He doesn't mind the red marks at his wrists. He's far too interested in watching Sydney's naked body saunter back into the kitchen, her hips swaying ever so slightly in the early morning light.

* * *

Conversation comes easily – almost too easily.

It's quiet until he sprawls out on the couch, stretching his bare legs as he turns away from the sunlight.

"I don't know why they sent me here, of all places," she says from the kitchen.

"Perhaps they appreciate your preference for abhorrent plaid couches," he drawls sarcastically, crossing his arms casually over his chest.

"That must be it," she chuckles, the sound of metal sliding against metal – the butter knife being placed in a rickety drawer – competing with her voice.

"I believe it is." His eyes are scouring her bare body, desire already stirring again in the pit of his stomach.

"They could've at least booked me a room in Vegas."

Sark's nose wrinkles in distaste. "Vegas? Why would you want to go _there_?"

She shrugs, feet sliding over the worn floor as she makes her way back to the couch. Her fingertips flit over his chest. "Because it's better than this."

Lighting fast, he grabs her wrist and pulls her down to him. "I wouldn't have come to Vegas."

She considers this for a moment, careful to keep eye contact. "Yes, you would've."

Her voice is confident, leaving no room for argument. He finds that words are useless now, in any case.

He kisses her first this time, his lips sliding slowly over hers. And as the action elicits a sigh from her, a voice in the back of his mind says entirely too clearly: _I would've followed her anywhere_.

* * *

It's not until the twilight of Day Ten that he remembers the cactus needle.

"How's your foot?" he asks, nibbling on one of Sydney's stockpiled granola bars. It's dry and tasteless, but he realized hours ago that the bouts of passionate sex had drained him of energy. Either he ate a granola bar or some sort of bland tofu snack she'd brought along – it was a simple choice.

"Huh?" She's sitting on the coffee table, her legs bent at the knee, feet placed on the couch next to him.

A smirk twists his lips and he lightly touches the top of her foot. "Remember…you stepped on a cactus needle? Right before you put a gun to my head?"

Her eyes light up in recognition and she cranes her neck to glance at her heel. She rubs her thumb over the skin – all signs of the needle now gone. A dimple deepens in her cheek as she shoots him a sideways glance under lowered lashes. "Ahhh, yes, I vaguely remember that…"

"The cactus needle or threatening to kill me?" He quips with a slightly raised brow, his voice quiet and somewhat muffled by chewing.

"Both," she whispers playfully, wriggling her toes against his hand.

It occurs to him that speaking flirtatiously about death threats is not exactly normal, but the bleating of his cell phone interrupts his thoughts.

The simple sound changes everything. It's almost as if the sun set on its cue, instantly rendering the room – and Sydney's serious gaze -- a darker shade.

Neither of them moves, but the sound of reality is insistent. He cannot forget who he is any longer…and it's definitely time to remember who _she_ is. 

Sydney moves first, her hand reaching for the cell. She grabs it and thrusts the object at him, all the while managing to avoid eye contact. 

"Answer it." The tone of her voice is cool and detached.

And with the press of a button, it's as if the past few days never happened.

"Yes?"

It's the voice he dreads the most, accented and strong over the crackling connection, "Good evening. We have instructions for you."

* * *

A minute later he's looking out the kitchen window, clad only in boxers. The phone is clutched in a white-knuckled grip at his side, while his other hand rubs at the stubble on his chin. 

"What do they want?" Sydney's clipped voice brings him back to his current situation. 

Instantly, his eyes squeeze shut. It's as if he hopes the action will remove him from this awkward situation. Hell, it's worse than awkward. It's dangerous, stupid and more than careless.

His bare foot sliding on the stained kitchen floor, he pivots to face her. Biting his lip, he knows his expression can't be masked.

"No," she whispers at first, hand on chest, fingers resting on black bra straps. Then, anger seeps into her voice as she repeats the word, eyes narrowing slightly. "No. I'm not going anywhere."

Sark sighs, exhaling through clenched teeth. "Sydney, she just wants to explain –" 

A flicker of hurt glints in her eyes…and he hates himself more than he ever thought possible. "Explain what? That she's a manipulative bitch? I already know that – I've _always_ known that."

"I promise that you'll be safe," he vows, knowing it's a feeble offer and she'd be insane to accept it. He knows he wouldn't if he were in her position.

"No offense, but I don't put too much stock in your promises."

"Now, Sydney, that's not fair –"

"It's entirely fair," she interrupts, throwing on her shirt hastily. Her chin hitches on the shirt's neck and she curses under her breath. "I think it's time you left."

Although he will never admit it, he's stung by her abrupt change-of-heart. It's not that he blames her, but it wounds him all the same. And he disguises it all by straightening his posture and grabbing his clothing from the pile on the floor. 

"I agree," he replies coldly, slipping his cell into a trouser pocket. The buttons of his wrinkled dress shirt feel like boulders under his shaking fingertips. He's seething and he doesn't bother to hide it. The fine leather of his belt snaps as he ferrets it through the loops of his trousers, causing Sydney to shoot him a quick glare.

"I didn't ask for you to come here," she says as she pulls on the form-fitting black exercise pants.

"And I didn't ask you to fuck me," he retorts, sliding the silver buckle closed with a subtle click. "But that made little difference to you."

She takes a step forward, index finger pointing angrily, "You pompous son-of-a-bitch, how dare you –"

He grabs her hand, crushing her fingers with his palm. "How dare _you_…need I not remind you that you just willingly slept with an enemy of your precious country?" She tries to pull away, but he holds her steady. "Apparently those morals you blathered on about earlier weren't quite as important as you thought."

"Asshole," she spits, succeeding in finally pulling away from him. Her hair sways from cheek to cheek as she backs up against the couch. "You have absolutely no right to judge me."

"And what of you passing judgments on me? You're a fucking hypocrite – you think you're above it all, don't you? It's fine to make presumptions and categorize, but only if it's not done to _you_. Not everything is black and white, Sydney – it's not that simple."

"You don't think I know that?" she fires back, edging back alongside the couch. "My whole life has been spent walking from one shade of gray to the next. I think I'm justified, not to mention qualified, in making distinctions between black and white, between good and bad."

"Yes, yes, I know," he rolls his eyes in frustration. "You are good, which would make me evil. So what's angering you, Sydney? The fact that you went slumming and fucked a bad boy…or the fact that your golden touch didn't have an effect on my tarnish?"

This apparently hits a nerve. Jaw clenched, she moves so quickly that he isn't prepared to defend himself. One moment she's standing at the base of the couch, the next she's on the ground, a gun in each hand.

_So we're back to this_….he thinks, trying to push away the sense of alarm that's building in his stomach. Even at their first encounter, Sydney hadn't looked so wild-eyed, so savagely unpredictable. It all feels very wrong…as if oxygen is suddenly in short supply, as if he can't breathe fast enough, hard enough.

"What _are_ you doing?" The words tumble from his mouth and he's horrified at how strained they are, how they essentially give him away. He's afraid – probably for the first time in years. 

The way her gaze darts around the room is nothing short of unstable, yet it still feels like a hard, threatening stare – he doesn't know what to expect from her. And it scares the shit out of him.

"I made a mistake," she growls, teeth grating over her bottom lip, dark eyes narrowing, "I won't make another one."

And before he has the chance to speak, think or react, she pulls the trigger.

Once. A searing pain in his left leg – his knee burning like a brushfire.

Twice. The flesh on his abdomen's right side rips and snaps.

The pain is immediate and intense, causing his vision to blur and unsaid words to catch on his tongue. He's on the ground, watering eyes on the ceiling. He breathes in loud gasps and his hands slide over the tell-tale slickness of his wounded stomach.

She steps over him on her way out the broken door, not bothering to look back as her bare feet slip from the shack to the hot desert sand.

And he laughs, the sound bubbling over an excess of saliva in his mouth. He laughs because he's surprised to be in this position – helpless and bleeding on the dirty floor of a desert shack. He laughs because he can just picture Irina's face when she learns the truth – a slight twitch of the lips and clench of the jaw. And he laughs most of all because it makes the pain dull for a brief moment…and because it's simply not in his nature to cry.

* * *

He knows that he should be able to move – that technically, his body should make it to the stolen red Corvette parked a half-mile away, if only working on pure adrenaline…or desperation. And he tries again and again, managing to make it within two feet of the doorway, knowing that he's left a wide scarlet trail in his tracks. But within moments, the pain quadruples…and it's become hard enough to breathe, let alone move.

So he takes another deep breath, tries to move once more. A thick gurgle hitches on the roof of his mouth and he's powerless to stop a curtain of black from falling over his vision.

* * *

Day Thirteen is when he wakes. Hot, it's so fucking hot. And he can't move, can hardly keep his eyes open for longer than a minute. There's sand in his mouth and he wonders how long he's been unconscious. A day? Two days? Possibly more? From the heaviness in his limbs, the parched roof of his mouth…it's been a while. The pool of blood that surrounds him – his blood, he remembers with a wince – is dried to a deep, crispy brown. His fingers – also caked with dried blood – feel like lead and he wonders if he's going to die here. He wonders how long he can stay awake.  He wonders if Sydney is in Los Angeles, showering off the layers of desert grime…and residual guilt. But he doesn't wonder why she shot him – it's the one thing he refuses to focus on. Instead, he tries to count to one hundred, succeeds, then tries a thousand, then five thousand.

He blacks out just before 6,147.

* * *

Day Fourteen is spent hovering in the gray-speckled gap between unconsciousness and reality. His breathing is labored and raspy, catching on the thick mucus buildup in his throat. He imagines that it resembles a thick rope net – covered in seaweed, muck and murky mud.  He is afraid to close his eyes again for fear of what lies beyond the rotting walls of this rustic cabin. So he stares at the ceiling tiles, water-stained and aged yellow, and tries not to count the seconds slipping by. Because a minute in his altered state is easily equal to seventy in reality.

Slowly, the crusty colors that dot the ceiling merge into a familiar scene – one that he's sure he could find just outside the unhinged front door, if only he could move. A canyon wall, hued in cantaloupe and salmon and peach. It's sliding by, his foaming fingers clawing at the rock in a futile effort to slow down the movements and it's making his head ache and pound and vibrate. His mouth opens, he can't speak and his eel tongue slithers and swims away.

The canyon shrinks into a bricked well and he's still falling, red turning brown, dried blood like his legs and rock red yellow rustic cabin desert sin sky.

Slippy tongue lash hard.

Dry no-water gunman crouches emerald eyes.

Maroon muck foaming fingers.

Big initials names rights eyes eh.

Falling floating carry canvas underneath.

Women white and blue, words like birds.

Pink seashells, wet cotton insect bite, cloudrunning.

The ceiling is different here. His eyes close.

Her toenails, in reality, are not painted pink. They are a deep red – a dramatic scarlet – and they peek out from a pair of pricey designer heels. He can smell her – a hint of strawberry is mixing with antiseptic and the sterile non-scent all hospitals possess.

"Hey," she says, the single word slightly garbled by his drug haze.

He tries to move so he can see her face and is met with stiff resistance. His neck is sore, his lips cracked, his insides burning despite what he recognizes as a liberal dose of morphine.

_Bitch_, he wants to angrily retort. _Selfish, evil bitch_. However, a muffled groan is all he can manage.

"I'm glad to see that you're recovering," she continues, her voice businesslike. Like he's a fucking transaction. Like she made a commission on the sale of an expensive cashmere jumper. Like her two strategically placed gunshots secured her a lofty promotion and a corner office with a view.

The edge of her trouser cuff – a lightweight navy wool – brushes against his hand. His fingers curl into his palm as if seared by a blowtorch.

"Fuck you," he rasps, finding it hard to select any other words that would convey his disgust.

She sighs and moves in her chair until her face is in his line of sight. Something flickers briefly over her face – guilt, perhaps – and as much as he hates to admit it, she looks breathtaking – soft cheeks, dewy lips, bright eyes. It makes him cringe and loathe her all the more.

"Sark, listen to me," she whispers urgently, her hair swaying from side to side. "This is important."

"As important as shooting me…and leaving me for dead in the fucking desert?" he snaps, the words slicing through his dry mouth like razor wire on sagebrush.

"There are reasons…." She pauses, biting her lip and looking away. Tears shine in her eyes and a sliver of a moment passes in which he hurts for her. "There are so many explanations for what happened. I don't – I don't know where to start."

His momentary sympathy is washed away easily. His mind grapples for the one comment that will exact the largest amount of pain with the smallest amount of effort on his part. "Start with the fact that you're just as evil as your mother." He turns his head into the softness of the pillow, instantly regretting the words. "Seems as good a place as any."

"You want to talk about her? Fine," she says quietly, her voice wavering just enough to needle Sark's conscience. "She is actually the reason you're alive right now."

Sark snorts to clear his mind, letting his eyes close again. He can't bear to see her; to hear her voice any longer. The only thing he can think clearly is: _go away, go away, go away_. "Do try to give me some credit, Sydney," he purses his lips, eyes still shut, "I may be physically incapacitated at the moment, but I am _not_ a fool."

He almost chokes on the last word, knowing he is indeed a complete fool. For having gone to that shack in the desert, for tasting her flesh, for inhaling her scent and holding her close on a worn couch. Yes, he was a fool. No longer, though. He's sure of that fact.

She takes a long moment before replying, and for a few fleeting seconds Sark is convinced she's no longer in the room. His relief doesn't last long. "Four days ago, Irina Derevko turned herself in."

Sark's eyebrows raise sluggishly; he's not convinced or impressed. The corner of his mouth curls cockily. "To whom? CIA or SD-6?" 

"Sarcasm noted." Clipped, businesslike once again. From hot to cold, Sydney Bristow changes in the blink of an eye. He knew that before…before the desert…and yet, he still went to her. He winces, tries to turns his head even farther away from her. He should've known better. "She actually walked right in the front entrance of the CIA…and surrendered."

Sark remains silent, taking time to process this information. "Why?" he says finally, his tongue scratching against the roof of his mouth like worn sandpaper. Eyes flutter open to focus on the horrid striped curtains. Faded lime and tangerine. "Wait," he says suddenly, the room's carnival-esque décor coming into focus despite the drugs careening through his system. He represses another snort, spending his depleted energy reserve on sarcasm instead.  "That explains your _benevolence_, doesn't it? So much for good will, Ms. Bristow?" 

The window is closed; the sun is shining outside; the room is stuffy. His voice is raspy, its quiet tone conveying the slightest hint of hurt. "You think I know your mother's motives. That's why I'm still alive."

He hears her move in the plastic seat, legs uncrossing, a heel hitting the floor as she leans forward, possibly. 

"Khasinau was killed," she says slowly, as if hoping to provoke a reaction from the man in the hospital bed.

It doesn't work. "Irina did it." It's not a question; just a casual statement, like he's reading off stock quotes.

"Yes…was this…" he feels her lean closer, "was it all planned in advance?"

"You honestly think Khasinau would willingly take part in his own death?" He continues to stare at the curtained window, the Popsicle-hued shades blurring until he shakes his head slightly. "You disappoint me, Sydney."

"What _do_ you know?" She asks through a sigh of exasperation. "Did you know about this?"

Unable to bear avoiding eye contact any longer, he sits up, eyes trained on her with all the intensity he can muster. "About Khasinau? Or about your little plan to set me up in this makeshift hospital?" he spits, narrowing his eyes. He pauses, sees from Sydney's slight wince that the barb hit its intended mark, and continues quietly, "Obviously I didn't know about either."

Sydney hesitates now, eyes darting to the window, and he knows she wants to press on. And he's suddenly determined to make this as difficult as possible for her. After all, her trigger finger is the reason he's holed up in this loathsome hospital, with its ridiculous atmosphere bringing forth memories of sticky candy and curly-haired clowns.

"Just tell me what you know," she says finally, manicured nails tapping against the metal bedframe as she scoots her chair closer. Her gaze collides with his and regret slices through his chest_. Go away, Syndey, just go away_. There's so much he wishes he could say, but he remains silent.

She obviously takes his silence as a sign to speak. "_Everything_, Sark. Tell me everything."

A burst of strength allows his arm to snake out and grab her. His grip on her hand is gentle for only a brief second before he intensifies the pressure, as if she is merely a ripe orange. "What makes you think I'd tell you anything? Because I made a silly promise days ago to a woman, from all appearance, who deserves to be lied to? I speak one word to the CIA and I render myself a traitor, just another enemy to my employers. They wouldn't hesitate to exterminate me at the first possible opportunity…much like yourself, I might add."

Sydney's long fingers curl into his palm, her nails biting into the soft flesh. She exhales loudly, her breath tickling his skin. "And if you refuse to talk," her dimples flash and recede as her mouth moves ever-so-slowly, "the CIA will make sure you're imprisoned for the rest of your life."

It's not lost on him that she doesn't say "I", but rather "the CIA" – an attempt to remove herself from responsibility. If he were a foolish man, he would entirely read something entirely different into that choice of words.

His fingers turn white as he crushes her hand, the drugs rendering the pain from her fingernails bearable. Throat clogged with a simple phrase (_go away, go away, go away_), he continues to stare her down, relishing the rush of power that follows when she squirms. He wants to scream obscenities, break her fingers, pitch her across the room. He does none of these things.

Instead, he releases her hand. With his nose wrinkled partially in disgust, partially in self-hatred, he pushes it off his bed like it's nothing more than a soiled undergarment. And then the phrase finally exists his lips, the deep timbre sounding like that of a stranger: "Go away."

"I can't," she retorts quickly, desperation tainting her voice. Resilient as ever, her reddened hand reaches for his again. Simply put, the situation is unbearable for even the strongest of men. Knowing this, he lets her touch him, but refuses to enjoy the feel of her silky skin on his.

"Any information you have is of vital importance to us –"

She can't know that her fingers are sliding over his, teasing him, mocking him for past decisions and current emotions. 

One more slow-motion caress from her index finger, and he's about to break --

"Enough!" Red hot anger scorches his entire body, from toes to scalp. His mouth burns with words unsaid, with the desire for her…and before he's even aware, he's speaking urgently. "You expect me to sit here obediently and answer to the CIA, Sydney, _fine_. But you'll answer my questions first, do you understand?"

The situation seems entirely too familiar and he is hasty to push the memories of the desert aside. The tension, though, it's still here – radiating from her, from him, from the room – hell, even from the fucking IV. 

"I don't have time for this—" pulling away from him now, she digs in her purse for her cell phone, its cheery chirp muffled by fabric and distance.

Again, his frustration gives him strength and he snatches the silver phone from her grasp, its brushed metal casing cool to the touch. With all the force he can muster, he pitches the it to the far corner of the room, and is instantly rewarded as it cracks and splinters into pieces, clinking across the floor.

Turning to her with a smirk of satisfaction, he sneers, "Now you've got all the time in the world." 

Quick to cover her surprise, she sits straighter in the plastic chair, hands clenched into fists in her lap. "Mr. Sark, I don't think I really need to remind you that you're a prisoner of the United States government –"

"No, but perhaps I should remind you of the wounds you inflicted upon me," he snaps, pulling back the sheet covering him. "Perhaps I should remind you of what happened in that Nevada desert…of what _we did_…"

"Stop. This. Now." Three sharp words fail to pierce his fog of anger.

Maybe it's no surprise that the tear threatening to wind its way down her left cheek barely registers as he continues, voice shaking with contempt.

"There was a time when I thought – " he stops abruptly, a man teetering on a precipice, fearing his voice will offer nothing but betrayal should he continue. Biting his lip entirely too hard, his eyes close in order to break eye contact. Looking at her – seeing the conflict in her expression – isn't good for him. This needs to end. She needs to go away. He needs to relinquish the part of the fool. He needs to heal.

"I wish things hadn't happened as they did," she starts quietly, quick to add – as Sark winces ever so slightly --  "that – that you ended up here, like this.  I should've thought twice before firing on you, but – "

It's more than he can bear, yet again. "But you didn't," he interrupts, trying his best to convey a sense of nonchalance. And he does a decent job until he feels a sigh slipping from his mouth. So, yes, he fails…and miserably. It's easy, in the moment, to blame it all on the drugs – in the future, though, he alone will carry the heavy burden of responsibility for his poor performance.

"I didn't." When her gaze returns to his, it possesses a world of wisdom with just a shy whisper of innocence – the raw purity of her wide-eyed expression suggests she's all but forgotten the plastic bits of destroyed phone in the corner. Sliding forward in the chair, she gently cradles his left hand in both of hers. "This is our reality, what we are," her teeth tug at her bottom lip and she suppresses a sniffle, "what I've become." 

It's not a surprise she only refers to herself when suggesting such a drastic change. After all, he _is_ Sark – supposedly born evil, without morals or principles or the tiniest sliver of a heart. Of course they would assume he couldn't "become" anything but more ruthless. Of course they would believe him guilty of everything except goodness. It's with just reason, though, and he can't blame Sydney, as much as he wants to. The CIA, though, can just fuck right off.

She bows her head, the perfectly straight white line of her part reminding him of a compass. He is south; she is north. And he's sure than in her mind, he is evil and she is good. There's nothing that could ever permanently bridge that gap.

"This is reality, yes," he whispers, allowing himself to receive – but not to savor, no never again -- her featherlight touch. "But there are times when reality is as deceptive as, well," his lips curve upward, "someone like me."

And just like that, she smiles. A toothy, gloriously disarming gesture that leaves him feeling vulnerable and frightened, although he hastens to hide it.

"I plan on walking out of here, Sydney," he says with a soft finality. Her fingers stall, manicured nails unmoving on his clammy flesh.  "You knew that when you came here today." He watches as she glances to the window again, her cheek twitching, her hair catching in the collar of her pristine white dress shirt. "And you know that now, too."

There's no reply, but something in the air changes. A silent armistice: awkwardness and anger are now replaced by acceptance and quiet determination. The brashness of the window curtains is no longer important. His head is no longer screaming for her absence. And the selfish part of him wants this feeling to last forever – a certain comfort he'd convinced himself he would never need.

Instead, his hand is slowly abandoned by hers. An air-conditioned draft from above cools his sweaty palm as she produces a shiny blue metal pen and a virginal pad of white paper. And the pressing questions are never asked, for he's already speaking.

* * *

A change of clothes is delivered two days later when the doctor – a gray-haired, mustached man with horrible posture – silently signs release papers. A basic black t-shirt, basic black boxer briefs, a basic pair of Levi's and black rubber flip-flops. The yellow drugstore price sticker is still on the heel of each shoe; it reads $3.25. He briefly wonders who had the duty of shopping for him – then chuckles silently over the color of the shirt. Either someone heartily invests in government-sponsored clichés…or has a twisted sense of humor.

The sun isn't highlighting the abhorrent stripes of the curtains – the morning is overcast and the telltale musty scent of an impending storm is filtering in through the open window. He's pleased – part of him feels like hiding from the sun for the next five years. 

The only thing he leaves the hospital with is a slight limp. No money, no identification (forged or otherwise), no mobile phone, no idea where the hell he is.

As he swaggers past the automatic sliding doors of the facility, his cheap footwear smacking insolently like bubblegum against the soles of his bare feet, he grins at a passing nurse. 

"Good day, miss…" It's almost a shock to hear such politeness flow from his mouth after the emotional rigors of the past two weeks, but he continues cheerily, "I'm from out-of-town and, I have to admit, a bit turned around…would you mind giving me directions to the nearest airport?" 

The nurse, a twenty-something redhead with a weak chin and glaring metal braces, blushes shyly before replying, "Sure…you're only about a half-hour from McCarran…." She gestures jerkily toward the street with her white plastic clipboard and adds, "Just take this street to the interstate…head west…and follow the signs."

He's about to verbalize his appreciation when she suddenly glances at the sky and says, "You might wanna' hurry, though…they say the weather'll be really bad this afternoon."

"Thanks," he calls over his shoulder, already on his way out of the building and into the heavy desert air.

* * *

Ten seconds later, he passes a familiar face in the parking lot. 

Surprised green eyes meet his and he drawls, "Good morning, Agent Vaughn. I'm sure I have you to thank for my top-notch footwear."

After enjoying the man's stunned expression, a dozen wrinkles battling on his forehead, Sark walks effortlessly by, managing to minimize his limp until he's out of sight.

* * *

He ditches his stolen ride, a late-model silver Lincoln LS, on the third floor of Mandalay Bay's parking structure, careful to keep his head bowed to avoid the omnipresent surveillance cameras. 

He walks into the casino with fifty dollars in cash – discovered stashed in the glove compartment along with a perforated vehicle registration slip, a disposable yellow camera and a gold box of condoms.

Within two hours, he's catching a taxi out front of the towering hotel, having garnered $5,500, a stylish pair of black leather loafers, a forged Iowa state driver's license and the phone number of a leggy blonde cocktail waitress named Meghann.

Horns impatiently bleat from Las Vegas Boulevard as tourists empty out onto the wide sidewalks, eager to explore a neon-enhanced falsity of a city. A playground that is quick to be whatever a visitor wants it to be – quaint European village, bustling East Coast metropolis, lazy Italian waterside paradise. He vehemently hates it, but the irony of it all doesn't fail to register. _Las Vegas is a billion-dollar money making chameleon – just like my esteemed colleagues and I_. It's no wonder Sydney Bristow was so eager to escape here.

The corner of his mouth quirks up…and it's the last time he thinks of her before his plane is in the air, hastily scurrying above the low-hanging clouds and the barren, windblown desert below. 

**[End]**


End file.
